BETWEEN THE WOODS AND FROZEN LAKE

Colin Jung

8th Grade • Edison Regional Gifted Center

At the head of a massive lake, adorned with exotic plants was a marble building with a golden dome, for which the city was named. It was dark at night, on New Year’s Eve. The square in front of the palace was filled with the voices of the city’s youth. The fireworks exploded above the city, the light reflecting brilliantly off the gold.

Two thousand kilometres north of the Golden City, the thick concrete walls of the fortress were battered with snow. The windowless building was circular on the outside, but there were large empty spaces inside, mostly to house helicopters so that those that were unfortunate enough to work here could commute home each night. It was dark, and the building was empty.

East of the fortress were hundreds of small lights that illuminated the small tents, arranged in a perfect grid, stretching from the sea to the fortress. The village was bounded by the ocean on three sides, but in the winter, the water was frozen, covered with snow as far as the eye could see. The small peninsula was separated from the mainland by the fortress; beyond the fortress was a deep forest.

In a small tent on the outskirts of a little village, an old man lay on a bed of frozen hay. His son had left to find the village healer. Through a crack in the tent, he could see the two returning. His eyelids were heavy, fixed shut.

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As his son neared the tent, the old man forced his eyes open and fell back into the haystack with a smile.

The healer opened the tent first and stepped in to examine the old man. She was an old woman with a permanent scowl etched onto her face.

“Your father’s dead.”

Her raspy voice hung in the damp, frosty air inside the tent. The son stepped towards his dead father and embraced him. He touched his father’s hand, still warm, one last time, and left the tent.

Two days later, thirty metres west of the old man’s, a mother whispered desperately to her oldest son inside another damp tent. The sun had just set, and a foot of snow covered the ground. Marie had never left her tent on a winter night. But her youngest son was sick and rumours were spreading throughout the village about a deadly new illness.

“Andre, I’ll be back soon. Take care of your brother.”

She slowly began to walk westwards, weaving through tents and trees towards the fortress.

Hours later, feet frozen and the skin on her face cracked from the cold wind, Marie pushed herself into the concrete building. A tall blond man in a dark suit greeted her. The windowless lobby was bright white from the artificial light, which reflected off the polished wooden surface of his desk. The golden nameplate on his desk read:

Tristan, Governor-General of Reservation #14

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“My son is dying. You —”

“That’s unfortunate, but we can’t help you with that.”

The Governor looked at the wall above her head, holding his gaze for only an instant before turning around to pack his bags. It was getting late, and his job was not to indulge the villagers’ whims. He turned to flick the lights off.

Marie was desperate. She did not, after all, walk two hours through the snow to be turned down by a heartless young man. She desperately explained that her son’s eyes were forced, that he would die soon. She explained that there was a new illness running through the village and that the government had the responsibility to act.

During her monologue, the governor turned the lights off. She continued to talk, louder, her words echoing throughout the dark hallway. After she finished, the lobby was silent. Thinking he had left, she turned around towards the concrete door, defeated, and a single tear fell down her cheek. As she reached for the doorknob, the governor’s low whisper broke the silence.

“Bring your son here tomorrow.”

The governor rushed out the door without another word but Marie was speechless. The tear fell to the ground and spread across the concrete floor.

Tristan walked down the hallway. He opened the door at the fourth entrance, punched in the password, and jumped onto his small helicopter. The engine came to life, and the roof opened. He laid back on the leather seat and closed his eyes.

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An hour later, he awoke to the familiar automated message:

“You will arrive at your destination in fifteen minutes.”

He looked out the window to the helicopter, and down below at the city. From above, the blurred lights made the city appear golden. It was nearing midnight, but the streets were as busy as ever. He flew away from the busy streets, and above into the highest floor of the apartment building. By day, it was an architectural glory, basked in sunlight and visible throughout the city. But in the night, it was invisible. Three thousand meters above the city of gold, of brightness, of hope, Tristan was reminded again how painfully alone he was. As the helicopter gained altitude, the warm glow subsided, replaced by scattered specks of light.

He landed on the roof and walked down the winding hallway and into his room without looking back. Exhausted from another long day of work, he lay down and fell asleep.

A small door appeared in front of him. He opened it to find a bustling café. He intended to walk straight through it out the back door, but his legs moved of their own accord. Tristan sat down at a table in front of a woman much younger than him. Tristan tried to get up, but he couldn’t move. He tried to interrupt her, to excuse himself, but the words wouldn’t come out through the smile plastered onto his face. The woman in front of him was laughing while talking vivaciously, and Tristan found that he was laughing too. But it was no time to enjoy the scenery; he had a job to get to, and he suspected that he was already running late. He opened his mouth to excuse himself.

He was interrupted by a cacophony of screams. Tristan felt a searing pain in his right ear. It was wet with blood. He looked in

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front of him to see that the smiling woman had collapsed with her face on the table. She was not dead, he could see her head moving, and that she was whispering to him. He could not hear what she was saying over the ringing in his ears.

Tristan could not see clearly through his tears. Blood pounded in his ears, and a pit was growing in his stomach. He lowered his head onto the table. The woman’s eyes were closed.

“Oh no, oh no, Iseult...”

The tears stopped and his sight faded to black. He could hear that she was whispering again, but all that he heard were his own words, echoing in his head.

Tristan opened his eyes to see that it was already midday. He wiped his tears and sat up.

The night before, near midnight, Marie ran back to her tent to get a few hours of sleep. It was dark; the lights above the tents had all gone out. By the moonlight, she weaved back through the tents and trees. When she reached hers, she laid down on the ground. A wave of fatigue washed over her, but as she was about to close her eyes, she noticed the sun at the horizon. The sky was still dark, but she knew she wouldn’t have enough time to sleep. With a sigh, she sat up, picked up Isaac and walked back out into the night. Before she left, she scribbled down a note for her older son, now asleep, that she had taken his brother and would be back soon.

The sun was rising. The dawn wind crept into the tent and blew the note out, towards the ocean, farther and farther away.

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“A few minutes.” There was no time for regret.

Marie lingered around the fortress after leaving her youngest son. A large man with a gun had told her to get out. Slowly, she circled the fortress, looking for windows and doors. After hours, she couldn’t find any, and the same large man reminded her that she was not allowed to roam around the building, so Marie headed towards her tent. However, she realized that she was too tired to make the trip. Exhausted, she found shade between two small trees and fell asleep.

Andre had been walking for hours. There was nothing. He started to appreciate the size of their village. There was nothing but flat ice ahead of them, and nothing but flat ice and the wind behind them. To their right was the village, some children outside, but still all the same. He was tired and worn out. His feet were aching. The pain helped to mask his hopelessness. Hopelessness because they were walking aimlessly to nowhere, hopelessness because he was leaving his family behind for no reason.

He saw a small object on the ice. An animal? As walked towards it, he saw that it was a sheet of paper, neatly folded, having blown in from the village. He unfolded it and read.

Shocked, he realized that he had to go back immediately. He was far ahead of the rest of them; he considered running off, but realized that they would follow him needlessly. Andre ran back

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to tell them that he needed to go back home. Without waiting for a response, he ran back, against the wind, on the endless expanse of ice.

At the same time, two thousand miles south, Tristan had still not understood what had happened. Bits and pieces of his memory combined with the dream told him that he had been someone very different. He couldn’t remember much else. It must have been over thirty years, he thought, since he last saw Iseult. When he opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital and the pain gone, he resolved to start over. He had skipped the funeral, moved into the apartment building, and signed up to work somewhere where he would never be recognized again. And so his life had been for thirty years.

He would have to go to work again. It was late in the afternoon, but he thought that he should show his staff that he was fine. With a sigh, he revved the engines to his helicopter and flew off northwards, wondering if he could ever reclaim his life again.

It was dark as Tristan was landing. As the helicopter hovered over the landing pad, a large aircraft shot at it. Bullets broke the cockpit and lodged in the engine. The little helicopter went up in flames as it crashed down into the fortress.

Marie woke up to an announcement. It was deafeningly loud; most villagers lived farther away from the loudspeakers.

“We have discovered a new disease outbreak in the region. For

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your safety and the safety of our staff, we will be evacuating our building tonight. We will bring additional health personnel tomorrow. Do not panic. If you are ill, go indoors immediately and stay there until tomorrow. Thank you.”

She almost tuned out in the middle of it. Was her son dead? Were they leaving him in the fortress overnight? Marie promised herself she would check on her son that night.

As night fell, she walked into the building quietly. No one was inside.

The silence was broken by a deafening crash. She rushed into the hallways closer to the sound, convinced that she would find her son there.

Andre ran back, slipping on the ice and getting back up.

The tent was empty. His mother must have already left. Looking behind him through the tent opening, he saw that Leo had come back with him. Seeing that he had made it back, they were turning around and heading back out. He had brought them back for nothing. He knelt on the ground and cried.

Above was the rumbling of a jet engine, followed by bullets in rapid-fire. He rushed outside to see a ball of fire falling and crashing down into the fortress. Bearing down on it was a giant warplane.

If his mother had left, he thought, she would have gone to look for his brother, in the building. He ran through the village.

As he ran, he saw fires begin to start across the village. The deafening sound of bombs filled the air with the screams of the

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people. Everyone was running in all directions. It was midwinter, but the village was hot from the fire. Tears formed in his eyes and fell down his face. He didn’t know whether it was his anger or the smoke that brought them.

He entered the fortress. The door was wide open. He tore through the halls, opening all of the doors along the way. As he neared the end of the hallway, he felt a gust of hot air. He turned the hot metal doorknob, wincing.

He found a large room without a roof. Navigating his way through the dense smoke, he found his mother. Dressed in the same clothes he saw her the night before in. She was curled up in a corner, enveloped by the smoke. The column of fire towered over them.

Andre kneeled next to his mother, head down, as the flames engulfed the room. On this night, the village and its people were forever erased from the annals of history. No one might ever know that a young man died out of love for his family under this vast, dispassionate sky.

Author’s Note:

“What is an excellent reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying...” -Albert Camus

...and what is an excellent reason for dying is also an excellent reason for living.

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